In one corner of the devastated neighborhood, where dust intertwines with fragments of memory, a woman returned to her demolished home. It was not a search for shelter, but a silent attempt to reclaim whatever remained of life. She walked cautiously through the rubble, as if afraid to step on a memory or awaken a longing sleeping between the stones.

Wearing a prayer gown—the only piece she managed to keep—she covered her body and sat on a stone, beginning to remove the scattered shards of glass. She wasn’t just cleaning the space; she was collecting the scattered pieces of her soul from the corners.

She picked up a blurred photo from beneath the debris, wiped it with her trembling hand, then held it close to her chest as if embracing a heart that had vanished but never truly left.

In the silence of the shattered neighborhood, the sound of her broom brushing the ground became a faint melody of life. There was no water in the house, no electricity, not even a complete wall—yet she carried out the rituals of survival.

She arranged the remaining dishes, gathered a pillow still clinging to the scent of childhood, and brushed the dust off a corner that seemed to still await its owners.

She wasn’t waiting for a miracle, nor building castles of hope—but she refused to break. Wars had stripped her of loved ones, of place, of time itself, yet she clung to a will that resembled a silent prayer. She walked between the walls melted by shellfire, speaking to them at times, smiling, as if comforting them and saying, "We are still here."

“This is our home, even if it’s turned to dust,” she whispered as she moved a stone from the doorstep. She carried no phone to document, nor waited for anyone to see her. But she stood as a witness to pain—and to what remained of dignity beneath the rubble. A woman who no longer cries, but clears a space for a stubborn hope that refuses to die.